


A Girl and Two Masks

by TheSharpenedPencil



Series: Quieting the Dawn [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, No smut guys sorry, duel povs, lots of sass, lovely lovely angst AND fluff, rewrite of a terrible fic but tbh idk if it’s any better, trigger warning for self harm but it’s only implied, wOw A gIrL wItH a DaRk PaSt CoMeS tO tHe OpErA aNd GeTs A jOb As A sTaGeHaNd So OrIgInAl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSharpenedPencil/pseuds/TheSharpenedPencil
Summary: There was nothing Kathryn could do but leave. She fled her situation and her family, winding up in The Paris Opera House, with a nice little job in the shadows. She’s not the only one in hiding, though, and not the only one wearing a mask...
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Quieting the Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1208100
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. I. Probably Shouldn’t Have Done That

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a fic that I have worked on over the course of several years, that I rewrote from a terrible fic that I never finished (Écrivain de Mensonges, if you’re interested in seeing where I started from.). Oh, and we get action straight up right away. But, anyway, bienvenue, enjoy, etc etc.

Kathryn was busy fixing a minor piece of broken machinery from the Opera Populaire’s rigging, musing about writing, when the work bell rang. It was approaching dinner time, and everyone was eager to get off work early.

The men in the rafters clambered down, and Kathryn pulled herself further under the mechanism, wanting to be alone. The system that she was repairing was fairly simple, but it required time to fix. With the other workers gone, she would have time to be by herself and think.

Before too long, the necessary repairs had been made, everything reattached to its proper place, and dinnertime was nearly over. After a quick supper, Kathryn was back in her room alone.

* * *

It was midnight. The tiny brass pocket watch she owned displayed the time through its grimy, scratched glass. Flipping it closed, she sighed. Another long sleepless night lay ahead, and she was in no mood for it. The recent days had gotten her... antsy. She felt uncomfortable and anxious, but she didn’t know why. Staying curled up under the thin blankets in the dark didn’t help either.

Pulling her hair back into its customary bun and shoving her feet into her boots, Kathryn got out of bed, having decided to go for a walk around the silent Opera House. She lit the gas in her hand held lamp and locked the door to her room behind her.

The past month had been dizzying. Running away was a tough call to make, and she still wasn’t sure it was the right one. Getting this job was nothing short of a miracle, she mused, even if it still twisted her stomach into knots. Well, not so much the job. More... the people. The other stagehands gave made her job so much more difficult. 

Every small mistake, every accident and shortcoming was her fault to them. It didn’t matter where she was or what she was doing. A sandbag could fall halfway around the world and she would be blamed. When it wasn’t the Phantom’s fault, that was. She chuckled to herself.

Even if she didn’t think he was an actual ghost, it was amusing to listen to the ballet rats scream as someone would scare them or tell them stories of the Opera Ghost. And he did have a sense of humor, it seemed. Plus, he had such a strong grip on the House, what with the extortion and striking of terror into people’s hearts at his every trick and such. Even saying his name brought a hush to the room. It was almost impressive.

The hallways got darker and colder as she trekked farther through the labyrinthine corridors. They reminded her of the Catacombs almost, but she was starting to get lost. The rooms were unfamiliar and dust filled, full of props from shows past, forgotten by everyone but the spiders. She noted this place as a good setting for a story. A ghost story, maybe. Or maybe just a nice place to sit and write. It was quiet, almost calm, and out of the way so that she wouldn’t be bothered.

The floor suddenly and violently came up to meet her. She landed awkwardly on her arm, and a bolt of pain shot through it. And the sizable shard of glass from the shattered gas lamp certainly didn’t help either. It took a few moments, but finally Kathryn’s eyes adjusted to the darkness around her and she noticed an uneven board in the floor. No, it wasn’t a floorboard that was the issue. With a second look she discovered it was, in fact, a trap door that had refused to close completely.

She made sure everything was fine before investigating further. Her arm wasn’t broken, it just hurt because she had angered an old wound in her shoulder, and it was still pretty sore. She casually removed the glass and splinter in her arm that she had sustained and pulled on the handle.

The door was stubbornly wedged in the floor. She doubted it had been used recently, if at all in the past few years, judging by just how wedged it was and the thick layer of dust that coated it. She was preparing to give up and go back to bed when she gave it a good final yank, finally tugging it free and making her nearly lose her balance.

Cool air blew up from the gaping maw that was the hole in the floor. _No,_ she thought, _maw was... too pretentious._ The trap door seemed more like a void, or a portal to another world.

Kathryn noticed a thin wire had been tied to the door, triggering what ever the wire connected to. Her original plan to travel down the ladder in search of adventure seemed a lot more... stupid. There was no other world for it. It seemed stupid now, especially if someone knew she was coming, a thought that did not bode well for her.

She tried peering into the pitch black room below, but couldn’t see anything. For a moment, she thought she saw the movement of black on black, but it was gone before she had a chance to confirm. There was an acute sense of danger, that whatever she had done, whatever she had upset, was coming for her. It reminded her of when she was young and would put out the lights in one room and run to the lights in another, worried that ghosts would catch her in the darkness.

She was away from the trap door before she even knew it, and she felt almost sick with fear. She knew, of course, on most levels, that a fear of the dark was childish and silly, but it wasn’t the dark that scared her- it was what hid in it.

It would be better to go, she convinced herself. She had disturbed something best let alone, and she didn’t want to be around when it showed up. She wanted to be back in bed, maybe with the lights on, and to wake up tomorrow morning and remember this and feel silly for being scared of the  dark of all things.

She, a feared and respected- never mind. That part of her was long gone. But still, the sentiment was the same. She was known for being fearless and yet she was constantly afraid now, always looking over her shoulder.

Anyway, she remembered that she should be going now, before she could get slapped in the face with the consequences of being here and attempting to explore forbidden parts of the Opera. Turning around, she-

The first thing she noticed was not the mask, but the eyes- mismatched things of yellow and blue, almost glowing in the dark. The writer in her, despite knowing that perhaps now wasn’t the best time, decided that they weren’t yellow and blue but amber and ice. Yeah, that sounded a bit better. The second thing she noticed was his proximity. The man with the- what was the word? Hetero-chromatic? The man with the strange eyes was hardly a foot away, towering over her in an intimidating display. Then she saw the barest outline of the mask, though it was difficult to tell in the dark.

Kathryn nearly jumped when she saw him, but she figured it would be more beneficial to appear calm. She wasn’t a frightened ballerina or some half drunk chorus member, and to show fear would be to show weakness. She merely took a step back.

“What are you doing here,  _mademoiselle_?” The figure growled the question in a not altogether displeasing voice. “Don’t you know that you should be in bed?”

“I could ask the same of yourself,  _monsieur_.” She smiled sweetly. Of course, the thought had crossed her mind that this was the ghost from all the stories. The fearsome, treacherous spirit that wandered through these halls was said to live below the Opera, and the ghost-like way he had appeared seemed to point to something supernatural. She had thought that it was merely a tactic the manager’s had employed to keep their workers in check, but he seemed... real. Living. More than a tale. No, he _was_ real.

Unfortunately, dear reader, Kathryn liked to play games, and infuriating the Phantom sounded just too enticing... Before she had time to think whether or not it was a good idea, she had said, “Creeping around in the dead of night, especially in an abandoned part of the Opera. Why, someone might mistake you for the Phantom,”


	2. II. An Entirely Unwelcome Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik isn’t very happy to find that one of his alarms has been tripped.

Erik was composing. Of course, by composing, Erik usually meant ‘squinting at a blank piece of paper and occasionally playing a note’. It was a rich, low melody, a fugue. Or, it would be, anyway. He was just beginning to add a higher, lighter counter melody to it, but there was a faint clanging.

Stepping into his living room, he deduced that it was coming from a trap door somewhere- no, that couldn’t be right. That part of the Opera House was nearly abandoned, and the trap door hadn’t been disturbed once. Then again, neither had most of his passage ways, save for his most obvious ones, but that was beside the point.

He put on his cloak and got his bottle of chloroform. Chloroform had the lovely effect of making the minutes prior to application wonderfully fuzzy and nearly entirely forgotten. Quite useful, as killing staff was entirely too messy to deal with, especially at such a late hour, when he  just wanted to go to bed.

When he arrived at the scene, he could hardly see anyone. Then, he spotted a girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen, staring at the opened trap door. Her sleeve had a growing stain where she had been cut. Erik noticed the shattered lantern and took care not to step on a shard of glass lest he give away his position.

The girl was tall and unnaturally thin, but had an undeniable presence. She wasn’t a ballet rat, as she was smudged with dirt and grease, and wore men’s clothes. Ah, he remembered her now. The odd circumstances surrounding her hiring had led him to examine her more closely than other applicants.

By the time he had sufficiently researched her background and discovered no evidence that a K. Jouneau had ever existed (save for a single bribe to a dock worker), she had already been hired and there was nothing he could do about it. Now for her to go snooping? In the middle of the night? Rather suspicious, Erik thought.

She turned around, and a startled expression appeared on her face before she schooled it and took a step back. He said, as intimidatingly as possible, “What are you doing here,  _mademoiselle_ ?”

She smiled, almost tauntingly. “I could ask the same of yourself,  _monsieur_ .” She replied coolly, throwing his title back in his face as he had hers. “Creeping around in the dead of night, especially in an abandoned part of the Opera. Why, someone might mistake you for the Phantom,”

It was at this point he started to consider just how difficult it was to hide a body. A lot more trouble than she was worth, he assured himself. And Antoinette would be furious. But her blatant disregard for his... station, you might call it, and her teasing was infuriating. In spite of himself, though, he laughed at her remark.

“Perhaps you should show me more respect, Miss Jouneau.” She inhaled sharply.

“How do you know my name?”

“As the Opera Ghost, I like to keep tabs on my staff. Particularly the more...  unconventional ones.” She looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, as if trying to devine more about him.

“Oh? What else do you know, then?”

“I know you’re different. Working as a stage hand. Dressing in men’s clothes. Going by a false name. I take greater care in researching my employees than the managers. I couldn’t find any trace of a Kathryn Jouneau. Not even at the docks,”

“So? What of it? What do you plan to do?” She countered defensively.

“As of right now? Nothing. I have no reason to be suspicious, other than you’re faux name. Maybe you’re hiding from something. Or someone. You are a good worker, even if you are a liar, and so I have no reason to dig deeper. Unless you give me one, I will simply be watching you.” He leaned in to further emphasize the last point and to add a little extra intimidation.

She opened her mouth, but he was gone, already half way down the trap door. The incredibly difficult art of disappearing at close range had been mastered, practically perfected, by Erik, and he was pleased to see that it still paid off.

Back in his subterranean home, he allowed himself a small smile. The girl was sharp and fiery, and her quick retorts brought him amusement, even if she was a disrespectful little nuisance. He didn’t think much more about her, however, as he fell into bed and a pleasantly dreamless sleep.


	3. III. Another Encounter with Monsieur Espirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kathryn is wary around the Phantom. Clearly not wary enough not to sass him though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers. Welcome to another wonderful chapter of the most amazing fic ever (jk we all know it’s a solid mediocre/10). As I’m SURE you have probably gathered by now, I am overly found of:  
> 1\. Ellipses  
> 2\. Commas  
> 3\. Repeating dialogue and scenes (I’m trying to be better about this, but if you miss some stuff and skim I won’t be angry)  
> 4\. You haven’t seen much yet, but having taken an ENTIRE year of French I like to replace the five words I know in both French and English with French words for no other reason except that I can.  
> 5\. Italics. Just... so many words in italics. (Because I want to show feeling, okay?!)

Evidently, the figure was amused. He gave a dark, velvety chuckle that bounced off the walls around them, amplifying his ethereal and intimidating presence.

“Perhaps you should show me more respect, Miss Jouneau.” She gasped.

“How do you know my name?”

“As the Opera Ghost, I like to keep tabs on my staff. Particularly the more... unconventional ones.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. Had she had her knife on her she would have drawn it. Although, admittedly, she probably wouldn’t have known what to do with it. How does one stab a spirit? This man didn’t scare her, but his knowledge of her alarmed her, even if it wasn’t her real name that he knew. Kathryn had tried her hardest to keep a low profile. She narrowed her eyes.

“Oh? What else do you know, then?”

“I know you’re different.” He listed a few reasons. Her mind screamed to run, but she couldn’t. He sneered, remarking on the care he takes where the managers do not. Especially with an abnormal case such as hers.

“So? What of it? What do you plan to do?”

“As of right now? Nothing.” She breathed a sigh of relief. He admitted she had a good work ethic and would not go any farther, but he leaned in closer to her. He said that, unless he gave her a reason, he would only keep an eye on her.

Before she could respond, his form receded into the surrounding darkness. Kathryn blinked.

So he knew nothing. The encounter did put her on edge, however. The legend of the Opera Ghost, who had the entire Populaire in the palm of his hand, was real. If the stories were true, she just had a very close brush with certain death. The thing that scared her more, though, was, supposedly, he could have her dismissed in the blink of an eye if he was so inclined.

She shut the trap door and collected what remained of her lamp. The glass cut her fingers, but the pain she felt helped keep her grounded. She needed its relief.

The next morning, as she reviewed the previous nights events, they seemed surreal. Like a dream triggered by unpleasant memories, an overactive imagination, and too many ghost stories. The cuts on her fingers and the steady throbbing of her shoulder proved otherwise, though.

As Kathryn dressed for the day, she constructed a cover story explaining away her injuries. She decided to tell anyone that asked that she had fallen, broken a glass, and picked up the shards, cutting her hands. In the end, however, she knew that no one would ask. And they didn’t.

Skipping breakfast, she opted to climb in the rafters until the work day started. Her thoughts never strayed far from the idea that she had been so close to being dismissed. For some, it was a difficult experience that could leave them penniless. For her, ejection meant almost assured death. Before long she realized she was shaking. Her vision grew clouded, and she felt sick. A moment passed. Then another. She concentrated on her breathing until the attack subsided.

A discordant clang roused her from her troubling thoughts. The lead stagehand, Harry, was handing out the day’s assignments, telling each backstage worker what tasks had been delegated to them.

Sliding on a rope down to the floor, she landed nearby and approached the circle of men. Her name was called, and she stepped forward to receive her list of tasks. She took her page and desperately tried to ignore one of the workers calling out, “Mornin’ sweetheart!”

Today, Kathryn had a long list of time consuming, physical work, as usual. As the newest backstage addition and a female, the most difficult and unsavory tasks fell to her. There was organizing the props stored in the first basement, carting some newly painted backdrops on stage, and attaching them to the rigging to be raised and lowered. After, she had to test it all. It would be a  _very_ long day.

Within the next couple of hours, Kathryn had most of the backdrops onstage, ready to be hooked onto their places on the pulley systems. The dancers were practicing steps, and the orchestra, who had had a late start, was beginning to tune. She took a deep breath. There was still much work to be done. It would be evening by the time she finished all her assignments, and it frustrated her to no end.

The tedious task was soon finished, and the first few backdrops were rigged to the pulleys. Glancing up for a moment, she thought she saw movement in the darkness, but she knew that her thoughts and imagination were simply being overactive again, having her eyes play tricks. Since the mindless monotony of the work day had begun, no matter what Kathryn did to distract herself, she could not stop thinking about her run in with the Phantom.

What were his motives? What did he have to fear from her, a _deux-neuf ans_ nobody? Maybe her job could cast some suspicion on her, but to what crime was she suspected of? Before she knew it, the lunch bell was ringing and the scenes were all properly attached.

Kathryn tried her best to stay out of the social spotlight. Everyone had their own friends. The ballerinas and their cliques, the staff and their coworkers, the stagehands and their own camaraderie. All of which she was on the outside of. It stung to admit, even to herself, but she had no one.

She was lonely. And needing someone, relying on someone else to push this feeling from her chest? After all the lengths and efforts she had gone to to be independent and completely self sufficient? It made her want to scream.

Kathryn elected to eat her light lunch in the uppermost part of the rafters. High above everything, tucked away in her own cozy little nook was nice. It was comforting and quiet. All too soon, she had to get back to work.

One of the stagehands approached her with an annoyed glint in his eye, doing nothing to conceal his acidic tone.

“I’m told I have to help you test the sets. Are they ready?”

Kathryn simply nodded, and took her place by the pulleys to help him raise and lower the backdrops. Everything was fine... until one of the scenes fell.

Fortunately, no one was near enough to get hurt, but it startled a lot of dancers out of their routine and earned her angry glares from her coworkers. But it did embarrass her quite a bit.

"Now look what you've done! You could've seriously hurt someone! Or worse, ruined the backdrop!" Had she not been mortified, she might have laughed at his words.

"No, monsieur! Everything was fine when I attached it, I swear! It wasn't me!" Kathryn was sure she had properly secured everything, but even she was beginning to doubt herself. She  had been rather distracted, but it didn't seem likely that she would miss such an important detail.

"Who was it then? The bloody Phantom of the Opera?" His offhand comment made her grimace. Of course it was him- probably punishment for last night, or one of his usual pranks. Pranks that could get Kathryn fired.

Needless to say, the other stagehands weren’t too pleased with her. Their derogatory comments and disappointed and disapproving looks only worsened things, and it made her angry. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t go and cuss out the Phantom of the Opera, and she had no choice but to keep her temper in check.

The only thing left was to organize the first mezzanine. It was large, and would take hours, but Kathryn was in no position to negotiate. All her other work had gone much faster than anticipated, though, so maybe this would too? She could only pray.

Work had ended an hour and thirty seven minutes ago, according to her pocket watch. The storage basement was mostly organized, but there still remained a large part to be sorted through. Her back ached, and she was tired, despite it being only seven forty. She had been looking forward to the end of the work week, as today was Saturday, but it seemed like it would never come.

Exhausted, she leaned against the wall and slid down. Then, a deep, rich, masculine voice, almost angelic, full of...  _annoyance_ .

“What are  you doing here?”

“Monsieur Espirt, kind of you to join me,”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” the disembodied voice responded.

“Working,” she sighed, getting up. “This entire area needs to be organized by morning,”

“Don’t you know about the rules? I don’t like having people below ground. That’s  _my_ domain,”

“I thought the top three basements were ours?” She made a small, smug smile. He grumbled in assent. “At any rate, I’d rather not lose my job because I prioritized listening to the Opera House’s resident extortionist over my work. Although I might lose it anyway if you keep messing up my knots,”

When there was no response, she continued working. Eventually, Kathryn had finally finished, and dragged herself to the dormitories, crashing into bed with out even bothering to change. She had no time to think of her newest encounter with the infamous Opera Ghost before she fell into blackness.


	4. IV. Annoying Stagehands 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik makes some mischief while our faithful heroine works hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I’m the Phantom of the Opera and welcome to my Masterclass. We will be learning all about how to haunt your own theater, including lessons like
> 
> \- making spooky scary noises  
> \- kidnapping sopranos  
> \- cape flipping  
> \- angst  
> \- writing petty notes
> 
> and so much more!

Erik woke up and started to think about his encounter with that female stagehand from last night. Although her wit was commendable, and her quick thinking and lack of fear admirable, but bordering on reckless, Erik thought Kathryn would do well to remember her place. As well as his.

While he had scaled back on his normal antics as of late, he figured that such a reminder (that it was  _his_ Opera House and that  _he_ was in charge) was in order. And all it took was a little loosening of a few choice knots. It was simple, it was easy, it made a statement (even if it was a common trick of his).

Unfortunately, people blamed someone other than him.

Erik had known that Kathryn had been assigned to tie the backdrops in their places. He had planned it so that some suspicion would fall on her, she would get embarrassed, and she would be paid back in full for her meddling, but ultimately the workers would know it was him. It did not work that way, though.

The other stagehands threw her angry looks, and the one she was working with started yelling.  _Oops_ , he thought. While he didn’t feel  _bad_ , per se, he hadn’t meant for this to happen. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but it was over rather quickly.

Later that night, he spotted someone in the first mezzanine, well after the company’s work day had ended. It was Kathryn.  _Again_ . She was sitting on the floor, with her head back against the wall.

“What are  _you_ doing here?”

She half smiled, half grimaced, and addressed him. He reminded her that he wouldn’t ask again.

“Working. This entire area needs to be organized by morning,” she finally answered. She let out a long, tired sigh and stood. He did notice that the first basement had substantially improved, and was cleaner and more organized than it had been in years. Still, that was perhaps an unfair amount of work to give someone, especially in one day.

“Don’t you know about the rules?” He accused. “I don’t like having people below ground. That’s  _my_ domain,”

“I thought the top three basements were ours?” Erik begrudgingly agreed, and didn’t miss her tiny, self satisfied smile at his assent. “At any rate, I’d rather not lose my job because I prioritized listening to the Opera House’s resident extortionist over my work.” She paused. “Although I might lose it anyway if you keep messing up my knots,”

He rolled his eyes behind the wall. Not bothering to reply, he retreated back home to compose. Today was a fast, light piece he had come up with recently, bouncing around his skull. Even as he sat composing, though, he couldn’t seem to push Kathryn entirely out of his mind. She had spoken to him so conversationally, teetering on the edge of blatant disrespect... but not like he was the Phantom, with awe and fear.

She puzzled him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so short! I promise the next one will be at least a bit longer, or I’ll double update. Cya! ~TSP


	5. V. The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kathryn has a quiet moment to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that this chapter would be longer, but turns out it’s not. I write fic in the notes app of my phone and just copy and paste it here, and the next chapter was short, too. How would I have known? Do I seem like someone who has things under control?
> 
> Double update it is, I guess.

Nightmares. Just nightmares. She could hardly remember what they were about, just the hopelessness and helplessness they had made her feel.She lowered herself back into the pillow, not even realizing that she had sat upright in the dark.

Kathryn flipped open her pocket watch. It read three minutes past seven, and for a moment she felt a bolt of adrenaline as she thought about how she was late for work, but quickly realized it was Sunday, the only day the company had off.

Today was a welcome respite from the grueling work week she had just finished, less then ten hours ago. Of course, it was also  _far_ too early to get up. And so, hopeful that the nightmares wouldn’t continue, she fell back asleep.

* * *

Kathryn shrugged on a button up, high collar white shirt later that morning. Convinced that nearly half past ten was sufficiently late enough to rise, she had climbed out of bed.

Breakfast consisted of a couple of croissants and cheese. Once again in the rafters, she watched people mill about below. A couple chorus girls gossiping, or a younger ballerina wanting to pretend she was the prima donna by singing on stage (some of which weren’t half bad), she watched them all go about their day, oblivious to her presence.

It was oddly calming, and the detached feeling was almost peaceful. It was nice to have a moment to herself, and to look in on the most private parts of people’s lives. Unfortunately, it got a little  _too_ private and her voyeurism was brought to an abrupt end when Kathryn spotted (or rather heard, as they were being quite loud) a couple that had evidently thought they were alone.

She climbed a little higher to the uppermost parts of the rigging, where a balcony encircled the dome. There, there was a circular window with a wide sill, perfect to sit and read in, and a rather small door, almost child size. On the other side of said door was a spiral staircase, leading to the Opera House’s roof. Of course, midway through November, the roof would be frigid, and she didn’t have her cloak with her.

She fetched a book that she had stowed near the window seat previously and began to read,cradled in the curve of the window sill. It was a book about myths, not just Greek, but Roman, and Norse as well. 

Kathryn was rereading the story of Icarus, the man who flew too high. Perhaps it was cliché, but it was her favorite. It could symbolize so many different things, from dashed hopes to going just a little too far with your passions. And, taken at face value, while a little tragic, it was also quite entertaining.

She remembered a time when she felt like Icarus, far too close to the sun. When she had walked into the Opera Populaire for the first time, everything was overwhelming. The gaudy gold, the ornately decorated  _everything_ , the marble statues! It was astonishing and beautiful and breathtaking.

It felt like she was close to the sun, and any moment now her wings would melt. Of course, that sounded good, it sounded  _poetic_ , even, but she wasn’t quite sure what having melted wings represented, in real life, at least. Evidently, the metaphor didn’t work both ways. It didn’t matter though. Kathryn had an appointment.

She had waited outside the managers’ office for an interview, worrying about what would happen inside. Maybe it would mean embarrassing herself, messing it up, and losing the job. Or maybe she would lose the job simply by being a woman. Which was part of the reason why she had... not lied, but...  _fibbed_ , simply  _adjusted_ her résumé a little. Perhaps she hadn’t really worked at the docks as a laborer, but it certainly didn’t hurt. At the very least, it would show them she could handle a labor-intensive job such as this.

The other applicants were scarce and sub par, she came to understand. A backstage worker’s job was demanding, and often unforgiving, but she had been the most qualified candidate out of the lot. And the glowing testimony from a dock worker she had paid off had definitely helped.

The false name and credentials had worked wonders. She got the job. And now she had reached the sun without melting her wings. Reading a good book, tucked up in her own little cranny... no, the sun wasn’t such a bad place to be.


	6. VI. Assorted Assholes and A Game of Truth or Dare That You Were Forced Into And You Definitely Don’t Want To Play But Also You Can Only Pick Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kathryn hits a bump in the road at her new job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update part two!

The next week passed uneventfully, but it had gradually gotten more hectic as it progressed. Opening night for  _La Bohème_ was nearly upon everyone, and the company was working harder than ever to accommodate last minute changes and to make sure everything would go smoothly. 

Next would be the Opera’s Christmas show, which took little to no preparation as it was done every year and the cast and crew had performed it so many times. Already, there was talk that the next opera, due to open sometime in February, would be  _La tragédie de Carmen,_ an abridged version of Bizet’s  _Carmen_.

_La Bohème_ was a lovely story, very  _Romeo and Juliet_ -esque, with some starving artists and their muses. Both couples split up and come back together again, but the main character’s love interest, who Kathryn believed was named Mimi, dies tragically of some sort of terrible sickness. 

It was more realistic, she thought, and the simpler, easier to follow storyline made a more profound impact, especially paired with the modern setting. And less frustrating for the audience because the characters are a great deal more rational. So overall she preferred this version.

Then again, she had only read _Romeo and Juliet_. She had never been to an opera, and it sounded new and exciting. From what little she had seen and heard above in the catwalks during rehearsals, everything seemed grand and elaborate, from the sets to the costumes to the music.

After another exhausting day at work, hauling props and shifting scenes on queue, Kathryn collapsed on her bed. She groaned and stretched, cracking and popping almost every joint in her body. It helped to ease her sore and tired muscles  a bit.

Although fatigued, she couldn’t sleep. Her muscles were overworked and needed rest, but her mind still buzzed. All curled up under her blankets in her shift, a single candle on her night table to help illuminate her notebook, she poured out her various ideas in the margins of the pages, and then expanded on them in scenes or short stories. Midnight came, then left, and so did one and two.

The page came in and out of focus, and Kathryn started to misspell simple words. Using her best judgement, she decided to go to bed. She promptly marked down a hasty outline to finish the scene the next day, closed the leather bound tome, and blew out her candle.

As she lay in the dark, with her eyes closed, she heard a noise, like the sound of metal on metal, but it was so quiet that she quickly wrote it off as her imagination or someone passing in the hall. Briefly she wondered about the Phantom, musing on her past experiences with him, but she was fast asleep before she could think much upon the matter.

* * *

The next day passed, as did the ones following, relatively quickly. Before anyone knew it, there were a mere four hours out from the start of the show, and in something called the “Ghost’s Hour”. Any and all superstitions were considered especially damning during this sixty minute period. Ladders were hurriedly put away, salt shakers were carefully secured and avoided (though some threw a pinch over their shoulders), and mirrors were not even to be picked up.

There was a circulating rumor that years ago,the lead soprano had been using her hand mirror when she dropped it, shattering the thing into a thousand pieces. As the curtain rose, and she tried to sing... nothing happened, and it was discovered that she had gone completely mute! From then on the odd tradition was observed.

Despite not being overly superstitious herself, Kathryn would admit... it was amusing. A stagehand had tried to order her to adjust the thirteenth rope (there was a numbering system in place to help identify ropes and pulleys) and could only say “the fourteenth rope minus one” or “the twelfth rope and one” and even “the baker’s dozen rope”. She supposed overall it was a cute tradition.

Then they were plunged into the aptly named “Three Hour Rush”. Three hours to showtime, and the entire House was thrust into barely organized chaos as everyone made ready for the show. Kathryn found herself, despite her title and job description, helping with costumes, wigs, make up, fixing props, tending animals, and a lot more. But the anticipation was thrilling in a way she hadn’t experienced before.

Having just finished applying faux dirt on an extras face to play a beggar a mere half hour out, Kathryn had fulfilled all her duties. Plus, no one had found her and ordered her to do something yet, so she was free to escape the crowded communal dressing rooms and go back to the catwalks to prepare to help shift the scenes. As she made her way through the halls, which were almost empty as everyone was away getting ready, she bumped into two boys.

She recognized them from working around them, but she didn’t know their names. They were slightly younger than her, but taller and larger. She tried to step past, but they blocked her path.

“Uh... excusez-moi, messieurs... puis-je vous aider?”

“Yeah, you can help us, alright... You’re the new girl, ay? We think you should come with us.” Kathryn wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. She tried to pull out of his iron grip, but it only tightened to bruising force as the burly stagehand led her to an empty storage room. He shoved her in, making her stumble.

“What do you want?”

“A fucking pony. But if you want a more realistic answer, you’ll have to listen. Joey, give me the book.”

Low and behold, the slightly smaller boy behind the larger one that had shoved her produced a small, leather bound notebook and handed it to Not-Joey.

“W-what... what are you going to do with me?” The slightest tenor in her voice betrayed her, making them laugh.

“You see this here book? It seems like you would recognize it, seeing as it appears to be  _your_ writing in it.” He flashed a page and Kathryn recognized the small, cramped writing and annotations in its margins. It was her writing book. Her entire world. Her life’s work.

“Give it back! What is it that you want with me?” Joey and Not-Joey laughed again.

“We want you to sit in Box Five. The  _Phantom’s_ box. The whole performance, or this book goes up in flames!”

“You... aren’t serious... you’re lying...” Kathryn tried calling their bluff, but it seemed that they weren’t bluffing.

“Oh?” Not-Joey yanked her towards him and pulled a large switchblade from his shirt pocket. He started to make a long, thin cut up her arm, but she merely stared at him in the eyes, earning her a small nick on her cheekbone. “Best get a move on. Curtains up soon.”

While she was... relieved that that had not gone the way she had thought it might, this did not seem a great deal better, although preferred. Doubtless, the Phantom would not be pleased to have her in his box. Or anybody, for that matter. Quickly, she scampered away to get in his box before the performance could start. After all, her writing was in the line.


	7. VII. A Little Bit of Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik does a little bit of snooping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone: I can rap Hamilton  
> Me: I can sing that whole part in Notes (it’s really not amusing/he’s abusing our position etc.) in one breath
> 
> (Not actually, but I am like, really close)

It was late, and it was dark. Kathryn had piqued Erik’s interest, and he thought it would only be fitting to investigate. The stagehand was unusually bright, and the false name only lended to the mystery.

He opened the mirror into her room. It was aged from disuse, and rather louder than he would have liked. The girl in the bed, however, didn’t stir, and so he proceeded with his task.

There wasn’t much to investigate. Her clothes, all men’s, save for a single blue floral dress, hung in the dresser or were neatly folded in its drawers. A pair of tall boots were carelessly thrown by the foot of her bed, and her night table had a short stack of books upon it.

Erik read the titles. One thick volume read  _Myths Through The Ages_ , and another said  _Macabre Tales by Edgar Allen Poe_ . There were more books neatly stacked on the floor, too, but the unmarked one on top interested him more.

It was a notebook, full of page after page of stories. Some had detailed scenes, and other parts had outlines for entire novels. There were character profiles and careful descriptions of settings, and entire chapters. Penned in the margins were quotes and ideas.

Kathryn was really turning out to be... odd. The trunk at the foot of her bed proved no different either. In it was a box of hairpins, a rucksack with sone money inside, and a box of matches, as well as two knives.

The first was a small blade, the size of a finger. The other was a workman’s knife, not unusual to see belonging to a stagehand.

On the hook by the door was a black cloak with a large hood, clasped with a cheap brooch. It had interior pockets, but they only contained a coin purse and a couple of pins.

Kathryn’s pocket watch hung on its chain on her bed post, and he noticed that one of the blankets she owned wasn’t one of the Opera’s. It was a soft brown color instead of the dreary gray of the cheap linens of most dorms.

As he returned down below, he realized that he only had more questions. Most stagehands had a great deal more stuff than the minimal things Kathryn did, and few could read as well as she did, never mind write entire books. Where would a woman of her standing receive such an education? If she was high society, why was she here?

He’d simply have to keep a more watchful eye on Miss Jouneau.

* * *

A few days passed without much event. Pranks were pulled, notes were sent, the usual, but it was opening night, and Erik had much preparation to do himself. As he methodically checked every department to make sure that things were running smoothly, he heard voices in the halls.

“...the new girl, ay? We think you should come with us.” It was a pair of stagehands he vaguely recognized and... Kathryn. Of course. She seemed to cross paths with him a  lot .

“What do you want?” she hissed as they unceremoniously pushed her into a secluded room. Her eyes were wild, like a cornered animal. As Erik watched them threaten her, he went to fetch Madame Giry.

A life time ally and associate, Madame Giry also ran the ballet corps at the Populaire. She could help sort this out, and maybe get there in time before anything too unsavory happened.

Maybe.

Erik turned back. It had been precious few minutes and he could probably step in faster than Madame Giry could. It was unlike him to have a moral compass of any sort, but there was no time like the present.

He got back to the room, but it was empty. Upon further investigation, he discovered the two boys working in the flies as usual. But Kathryn was missing.

Despite the missing stagehand, it seemed that a situation Erik had no desire to get involved in anyway had solved itself without resulting in any unpleasantness. As such, the matter required no further attention on his part, although it  _was_ odd. 

Still, he... didn’t  _ feel _ for the girl. No, obviously not. The great and terrible Phantom of the Opera didn’t have empathy. It was more like... pity? He had heard their threats. Clearly, though, he didn’t pity her enough to find her.

At any rate, wherever she had run off to wasn’t important. There were more pressing matters to attend to. After all, there was a performance he needed to arrive fashionably late to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, maybe my writing isn’t absolute garbage because sometimes I reread it and ENJOY parts of it. That’s crazy. I mean, they say write the story you want to read and I’m doing that
> 
> Maybe your story isn’t as bad as you think it is. Go off and slay, friends


	8. VIII. The Fifth Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Kathryn strike a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so when I started writing this I was like “hey maybe I should research a bit about opera before I write so this is more believable” and then after that I was like “and maybe listen to some music just to be sure” and then I ended up watching not one but two operas and am now an opera nerd, so... if you’d like to join me tho, I have some recommendations for songs!  
> 1\. Votre toast - Carmen - bizet (i love bizet and this song makes me want to FIGHT someone)  
> 2\. Dimash- S.O.S. (Not actually Opera but a beautiful operatic type song to get someone started)  
> 3\. Dimash - Opera 2 (once again not opera but operatic)  
> 4\. Queen of the Night aria - The Magic Flute - Mozart (gorgeous, what an absolute ICON, I could never)  
> 5\. Nessun Dorma - Turandot - I forget (it’s solid, maybe not my favorite tho)  
> 6\. Habenera - Carmen - Bizet (another lovely song)

Initially, everything went well. Kathryn didn’t dare sit in the seats of the box, choosing instead to lean against the railing and watch. The music swelled, and the curtain rose, displaying the scene of a run down apartment, three people inside. She found herself enjoying the opera, even laughing at the jokes the actors put forth every once in a while.

Even her endless inner yelling was silenced as she was completely engrossed in the story. She had been screaming at herself, that she was weak, and scared, and helpless. If she had only tried, surely she could have taken on her tormentors? But she remembered that, had she broken a nose or bruised a body, it was more likely than not she’d be fired. But the show helped quiet her inner fuming.

She had nearly forgotten why she was here, in the box with the best view of the stage, feeling like the aristocracy she wasn’t, having the time of her life, when a rich, masculine voice growled in her ear.

“ _What_ are you doing in  _my_ box?” She whirled around, but there was nothing. She warily eyed the darkness.

“It’s not like I  _want_ to be here. Besides, I thought we were friends? Caring  _ is _ sharing, you know.” She turned back to the stage.

“Mademoiselle, I think we both know that we are anything but. The Opera Ghost doesn’t have  _ friends _ , anyways.” He sighed, annoyed. “I digress.  _Why_ are you in my box, if not of your own volition?”

“I am not at liberty to say, my good monsieur. Just sit and watch the performance, and then we will part ways as if it never happened.”

“Those boys, that had you in the storeroom... that’s what this is about, isn’t it? They leverage the newcomers and people they don’t like into sitting here.”

“The- how could you possibly know about that?” It was her turn to get annoyed. She turned around and searched the darkness again. “That doesn’t matter. Let’s just watch the Opera.”

“You seem adamant. Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, not really. I’m assuming it’s about whatever they leveraged you with. So the remaining question is...” —the voice moved to another corner of the box— “...what do they have over you?”

She pointed out that punishing them wouldn’t look good for her. “Once again, I ask: does it matter?”

“It does if it’s the difference between me helping you or kicking you out.” She sighed deeply.

“ _Fine_ . It’s my writing journal, ok? I have been working in that book for over eight years. I must have it back.” She looked down. “I know it must seem silly to you.”

“Not at all.” He sighed. “I will consent to watching the opera with you, but only if you stay quiet. And then we pretend like it didn’t happen.” She smiled broadly.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping by! Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
